


wise men say nothing in dangerous times

by teacuphuman



Series: the most dangerous of men [4]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), TDKR - Fandom
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Obsession, declarations, fucking and fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: The revolution may be over before it’s even begun, and the reason for all of it is standing in John’s living room.





	wise men say nothing in dangerous times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marourin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marourin/gifts).



> This is for Marou for her birthday!!!!!! She gives us such amazing art and she's a large part of the reason Bane and Blake are my OTP. I am forever grateful for her contribution to this fandom. Happy birthday!

Bane’s waiting for John when he returns home, tired, and dirty, and feeling hopeless after watching Jones and his men gunned down. He has no idea where Fox and Miranda ended up, whether or not they're even still alive. The revolution may be over before it’s even begun, and the reason for all of it is standing in John’s living room, thumbs hooked into the loops of his vest and staring John down like  _ he’s _ the fly in the ointment.

 

“Get out,” John spits, throwing his jacket onto the couch.

 

Bane tilts his head. “You forget yourself, Robin.” 

 

His voice is hard, a warning, but John watched Bane murder good men today, men who may have been this city’s only hope, and he’s beyond complying to save his own life.

 

“I’m not your fucking toy. What you did today, that was more than I can look away from. I’m done. This,” he motions between them. “This goddamn minstrel show, is over.”

 

Bane stares at him, not moving, barely breathing, just watching. John’s skin starts to buzz after a minute of silence. He hates that he can’t read the look in Bane’s eyes and the mask obscures any of the other small ticks and tells he’s been trained to identify. All he has is the mountain of a man before him, and grey-green eyes that thrill and terrify him in turn.

 

“Tell me of Miranda Tate,” Bane says, voice even and calm, like he hasn’t heard a word John’s said.

 

“What?” John takes an involuntary step back because that’s not something they do. They don’t share information, and they certainly don’t discuss other people.

 

“Miranda Tate. CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Tell me what you know of her.”

 

“No,” John spits, shaking his head. “We don’t do that. You can’t ask me that.”

 

Bane takes a step forward, cutting the distance between them in half. “You have ended our agreement, Detective,” Bane sneers with disdain. “Now tell me what you know of Miss Tate.”

 

“I’m not telling you shit.” John blinks and pain explodes across his cheek. He falls to the floor under the weight of Bane’s hand, shocked and confused.

 

“If you do not tell me what I wish to know, what purpose do you serve?” Bane asks in an irritatingly reasonable tone.

 

John’s bites his lip so it won’t tremble, but he can’t bring himself to meet Bane’s gaze. He stares at the man’s boots, the ones he never takes off. The ones that grind against the floor when Bane presses his body to John’s. When he lays hands on him and makes John’s entire body sing.

 

“Would you have killed me, too?” he asks, finally looking up. Bane’s eyes are clear, but there’s a weariness to the slant of his shoulders. “If I’d been with those agents. Would you have killed me, too?”

 

“You were not,” Bane says simply.

 

John winces because he was. He was so close he has their blood on the cuffs of his shirt. “But if I was?” 

 

“I gave my word to protect you from my men.”

 

“What about you? Whose job is it to save me from you?” John asks, slumping with exhaustion.

 

Bane crouches in front of him, sliding his thumb across John’s cheek, pain blossoming bright and sharp under his touch. “You do not wish to be saved, little bird.”

 

John’s breath shudders out of him and tears prick behind his eyes because it’s true, John doesn’t want to be saved from this. He wants to live, and go on, and help rescue his city, but nothing makes him feel like Bane does. Like he’s finally, after all this time, finally  _ alive _ . Bane’s given him purpose, and there’s something inside John that craves that. Is desperate to hold up against the challenge Bane represents.

 

“I won’t tell you about Miranda,” John says, and his voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears.

 

“Do you also refuse my claim on you?” Bane asks, his large hand sliding around to hold the back of John’s neck. He could snap it in an instant, John knows. Leave him cold and lifeless on the floor and never look back, but there’s a voice in the back of John’s head insisting that Bane won’t do that. Not unless John forces his hand.

 

John’s tired. He’s so fucking tired of the fight, that for a second he considers it. Bane must see it on his face because he drops his hand and hauls John to his feet. He pulls John over to the table, nearly carrying him when John stumbles and goes limp. His thighs hit the edge of the table hard enough to bruise and then Bane is stripping him, quickly and efficiently, and with a sense of urgency John’s never seen from him before.

 

John gasps when Bane’s hand closes around his soft cock, massaging life into it, despite John’s fatigue. He groans, bracing himself on the table to push back against Bane as he swells under the attention of those thick, blunt fingers.

 

Bane’s other hand is on his back, pressing John down on the table, which is just low enough to allow Bane to continue without squashing John’s dick into the surface. His hand is tight, always so tight around John, drawing out painful stutters of breath and deep moans as the sharpness of his touch shoots through John, curling his toes and making his cock ache and throb. 

 

The metal edge of the table is cutting into his thighs, but Bane’s pressed so close behind him he can’t get away from it, and then Bane’s touching him. Fingers slowly, delicately tracing the marks on John’s back. Marks made from years at the hands of careless people. Belts, and knives, and cigarettes, all laid out for Bane to study. It’s not the first time he’s noticed them, John knows, but it is the first time he’s paid them any attention. Grazing each scar like it’s an apology, and in complete contrast to the hand working John’s cock mercilessly. 

 

“You’re so alive, little bird,” Bane says, his voice hushed, almost reverent through the mask as he wipes away the last of John’s opposition. “So strong.”

 

John keens, his face pressed to the table top. He can feel the crumbs from his breakfast under his cheek and taste the salt of his own tears as he gasps for breath. Bane’s grip is punishing and it more and more it feels like the only feeling that gets through to him anymore.

 

“Your life belongs to me now, my Robin. It is no longer yours to gamble with.”

 

John growls and throws his head back, catching Bane in the shoulder and making him grunt, but his hands never stop moving, never stop stripping John down to his bones and leaving him in a pile on the floor to rebuild himself the best he can with what Bane’s left him.

 

“You don’t fucking own me,” John grits out, unable to stop himself from thrusting into the unforgiving circle of Bane’s fist.

 

“No one could own a creature such as you,” The mask drags across John’s ear to his cheek, Bane’s breath cold and heavy on his skin. “Nor do I wish to, but your life is in my hands, whether you wish it or not. You live and die by my command.”

 

Bane twists his hand, pulling John’s orgasm through him like he’s lancing a wound, and he’s barely stopped spurting when Bane pulls his own cock out, slicks it up with John’s come and pins him to the table with his bulk as he fucks into the tight space between John’s legs. John thinks about trying to buck him off, even though he knows it would be no use, but Bane likes it when he struggles, so instead he goes limp. He lays on the table and lets his legs slump, and even like that, Bane’s cock can find friction with it’s girth.

 

“Show me your fire, little bird,” Bane murmurs, slowing down.

 

John stays still, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes closed and teeth clenched. Bane pets his hair, his back, gentle and mocking, trying to coax him into a rage.

 

“There is nowhere I cannot find you, you told me so yourself. Nowhere I will not follow.”

 

Bane’s voice is quiet and strained in his ear, like it pains him that John isn’t fighting back, isn’t participating in this pantomime they’ve created. 

 

“You are mine,” Bane whispers, grinding his cock against John and pressing the mask to the nape of his neck, and there’s such desperation in those three little words that John can feel the meaning behind them right through to his core.

 

“You’re mine.” John’s voice is raw, barely more than a breath of air, but Bane stills and they pant into the eerie quiet of occupied Gotham, neither willing to address the truth that’s trying to strangle them.

 

After a minute, when Bane’s cock is still hard and absolute between his legs, John pushes back, rocking against Bane and clenching his thighs, urging him to continue. Bane groans when John squeezes around him, wrapping one hand around John’s hip to guide his movements. The other hand covers John’s on the table, bringing back the memory of their first time and reminding John of everything he still has left to lose.

 

John leans his head back against Bane, shuddering when the mask touches the side of his neck, scratching against the vulnerable skin of his throat. But despite the terror, and the bomb, and the murder of Jones and his men, John trusts Bane with his life. Trusts him to hold it above his own, and if John is destined to die in Gotham, then this is how he wants to go.

  
  



End file.
